For me, sex has always been a physical act; nothing emotional, just something to get off on when my mind wanders into a place which leaves a wet spot in my panties. When in the company of another, any engaging conversation is more so a bonus than a necessity. If anything, a sense of anonymity, of mystery enhances the experience, makes that wet spot spread that little bit further.
I had always thought this was normal, but then I thought a lot of the things I felt were normal.
While I'd grown up watching women fall in love with handsome bachelors, I always knew movies didn't reflect reality, and so this vanilla lifestyle was always something fictional to me. I thought all women wanted to fuck other women, to be fucked by men twice their age, to be played with like a disposable toy, to explore anything and everything that would make that wet spot spread so far that my panties started dripping. As I grew further into my teenage years, I quickly learned that this wasn't the case for all women.
Realising this, I started becoming reclusive, started wearing a mask with every sexual encounter I had to make whichever bachelor I was fucking believe I craved the vanilla sex we were having. The most exciting part about it was the thrill of finding a stranger at a party and sneaking away to fuck without even contemplating asking his name. It was fine. I never came, and had to rely on my own hand to reach that point after the act, but it was fine.
Then I met you.
I was nineteen: a college student who'd moved away from home for the first time, away from the suffocating small town I grew up in.
You were sixty-two: a stranger I'd met online who I thought I'd never meet, who'd never become anyone beyond a bearded face behind a screen.
We met on one of those old-young dating forums, and you began as just another face in the crowd who provided me with the opportunity to express my darkest sexual desires. You were different, though. Other people I spoke to would often crumble, admit that despite telling me otherwise, it wasn't just a sexual relationship they wanted, but something more. You, to put it simply, just wanted to fuck me. No more, no less.
There were others who would've been happy with a fuck. They were never quite right, though. They'd ask me too many personal questions, or back out when my sexual desires didn't exactly match their own. Sometimes, they simply didn't make my panties wet enough. You, however, ticked every box. You were the perfect age, you wanted something strictly casual, you were attractive but not traditionally handsome, and you had no strict rules around your sexual preferences-you wanted to experiment.
We met at a hotel; something else I admired. There was no false pretence around taking me out for dinner and drinks. Instead, I followed the simple instruction in your text message: Room 313.
My stomach was rolling with a mixture of excitement and anxiety as I stood outside your hotel room door that night, but if the dampness in my panties was anything to go by, the excitement was winning. It was a nice hotel, not overly extravagant but not some run-down motel. My heart beat loudly in my chest while I waited outside the door, and I smoothed down my curled hair, twirled the dark locks around my fingers as I chewed on my lip.
I barely reach five feet tall, so as I heard footsteps moving behind the walls of the room I was waiting outside, a giggle escaped my mouth at the thought of you looking through the door's peephole because I must have looked a picture. This tiny, dark-haired little thing gazing up at you wearing a long red coat, although I'm sure you didn't mind the perfect view of my braless breasts peeking through my blouse.
You opened the door with a cool smile, and my heart nearly leaped from my chest because you were more than I expected. You were nearly a foot taller than me, and your wrinkled face showed the life of a man: a real man with years of experience. Your white hair had started thinning, your beard was generous but not wild, and your stomach was round as it perched over your fastened trousers. You weren't carved by the gods, nor looked any younger than your sixty-two years.
To cut a long story short, I've never wanted to fuck someone at first sight as much as I wanted to be fucked by you that evening.
You welcomed me into your room and removed my coat for me, ever the gentleman. I breathed you in as I stood beside the double bed wearing a miniskirt and white blouse that was probably a little too transparent to show off in public. I could see in your slightly drooped eyes that you were fighting off a smile, but per the character you had promised me in advance of this night, it never broke onto your face.
Instead, you sat yourself down onto the plush armchair in the corner of the room, then took a sip from a half-drunk glass of whisky on the desk beside you. Silently, you scanned my tiny frame from head to toe.
'On the bed,' you ordered, followed by a, 'and clothes off. All of them.'
I quivered at your instruction, and could barely contain my pussy from throbbing at your direct tone, your commanding presence. You'd remembered my desire to be dominated.
Without a word, I unfastened my blouse until my perky breasts were exposed. I'd always been self-conscious about my breasts; they aren't mosquito bites, but they're far from the enormous cock teasers plastered across porn. In one look, you obliterated every insecurity I'd ever had because as your eyes set upon my breasts, your breath hitched and aged eyes melted. With my blouse now in a messy heap on the carpet, I carefully unzipped my black skirt and let it fall to my ankles.
I failed to ignore your hard length pressing against your grey trousers as I shuffled onto the bed, then lay onto my back.
'Panties too,' you instructed before taking another sip of whisky.
'Sorry,' I apologised, my voice uneven.
'Sorry what?' you questioned.
For a moment, I froze, but quickly remembered the conditions we'd set out prior to this meeting.
'Sorry, Sir,' I correct myself, and you nod your approval.
